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Sons of Gildor Part III
Part 1 Part 2 Tighan ripped the glistening wet steel from the brain cavity of his prey. Bone splintered away from gluey gore as the Duke of Highkeep examined the carcass. “What was your name, assassin?” He asked of the dead man. “What name shall I whisper to Unquala that she may take this pain from you?” ……… It was early April. Gildor’s clouded skies had ceded to sun and warmth, a welcome surprise this time of year. Tigahn Dailar had returned to Highkeep to oversee preparations for his march on Leva Adium. It had come to this. “My lord I’ve been searching everywhere for you!” spoke a rugged messenger through haggard breath. “The ‘adventurers’ have arrived and – sir!” He gasped as he noticed the dead body at the feet of his Duke. “Pay no mind,” Tigahn said, his mace dripping with fresh blood and brain matter. “Another assassin, courtesy of Nashuss. I’ll clean the mess myself.” He examined the hardened edges of his flanged mace, a cool glaze of indifference plastered into his aging face. “I must say, it’s rather well-mannered of Khal to keep me in such prime condition.” Tigahn turned to face his servant; his cloak and face were splattered with crimson fluid. There was fire in his breath. “Send them in.” ……… The castle of Highkeep rose from the thawing body of the city like a proud father among its children. The castle was strong. The roots, the towers, the baileys and walls were constructed of the strongest stone, like the Dailars who owned it and all men of Highkeep that came before them. Since the failure of the Duchal Conclave to prevent civil war within Gildor, every Duke of the great cities of the north has prepared for the inevitable. Lines in the sand were being drawn. Nashuss held the support of his son and home city, Greenwater. Tigahn had already accepted the alliance of Sigurd Alston of Baskerburg. The other Dukes? Well, they would need to make a choice. Tigahn would help them make the right one. Tigahn had gathered to him a host of myrmidons, mercenaries and self-styled adventurers to heed the call of promised glory and riches. There were soldiers from Oden, pained at Nashuss’ inability to mobilize against the crimes of the Hand of Men. There were Gildorian adventurers who longed to see their home return to its former glory or the promise of sovereigns. There were even phantoms from worlds removed whose motives were mysteries to most save the truly observant. All of them were poised to devour their prey at the whims of one man. Tigahn readied the horn. The Duke of Highkeep walked upon the balcony afore his well-armed guests. His cloak, still marred by sanguine splatter from the attempt on his life, trailed behind him. The adventurers below fell silent at his primal visage. “My friends,” Tigahn said in a confident hum, “the time has come. It pains me to say that my old friend, colleague and fellow Gildorian, Nashuss Khal, has failed us. He has done the unthinkable.” Tigahn outstretched his calloused hands over the crowd and shouted, “he believes he is above the Law. He has turned his back on his fellow man that he may remain in power, that he alone will decide the fate of your families, your wives and sons, and those yet born to this cruel world.” He clenched his fists in genuine, primeval anger. “He will not get away with the crimes he has committed.” Tigahn made a gesture with his hand to subordinates to his left. With a nod they produced his armor. With delicate hands, in front of the adventurers below, Tigahn made ready for war. “Our task is simple; we do not have the numbers alone to storm the city of Leva Adium. We must coerce the other Dukes of the north to ally themselves with us that we may take the city by force. Valrose, Warden’s Gate, Westhome… these are the cities whose armies we require. I cannot do this alone.” He held his war mace, Orcfoe, to the light of the sun which grinned from windows on high. “But together, our victory is assured.” The adventurers resonated with him now; his experience ebbed into the crowd like a palpable mist. “Your roles, brave adventurers,” he boomed, “is simple. You will divide as needed and journey with battalions of my men to the different cities of Gildor. There you will demonstrate the superiority of our strength. One of the greatest of Gildorian traditions, the Honor Duel, will be your weapons. No Duke of Gildor can resist an audience with me should you best their champions. Now,” he said, holding his weapon out like a beacon, “who will join me?” The warriors below roared their battle cries and stretched their steel to the sky. Tigahn grinned at the promise of battle. “Paint your armor with the blood of those who stand before you. We shall create a mural of war! Soldiers, fight for Gildor! Fight for Glory! Fight for Lancerus!” ……… There was a young, lively tavern in the outer reaches of Leva Adium that reeked of drunken merriment and the hushed echoes of impending war. Men and women writhed over one another on the makeshift dancefloor as the leather-faced musicians played in a haze of smoke and smiles. Dice clattered in oaken cups as tired man relived their youth through games of bluff and chance. Dozens drank, dozens more yet gambled, and yet not one mentioned the ‘sons of Gildor’, as was the feud now known. Coin teetered out of pockets on to rigid wood tables and iron mugs clamored for refills; none had time to notice the two quiet souls near the back of the Bloody Tankard tavern. The first was a giant of a man; his mottled hair streaked back in swaths like the mane of a southern lion. His beard hid a gentle smile and a stony face, as well as bits of crusted bread and dribbles of Bitterblack ale. His musculature was nestled under the unimposing guise of a brown wool cloak. Though he was an older man, there was a sense of life emanating from his mirth. Even as he choked on bread and stew he beamed. The other soul, who sat opposite the larger man, was shrouded in black. They bore no discernable mark as to their character or state of mind. Their thick hood covered their face; even their voice was unreliable in placing them. “Solomon,” the mysterious stranger said, “I dare say it has begun at last.” “Ha, you say that like you’re surprised, friend,” Solomon said, downing his pint with the vigor of heroes. “And you’re happy about a civil war?” The hooded stranger dared to show emotion for a fleeting moment before recoiling into themselves once more. “Never happy about war, friend,” Solomon said. “I’ve seen more wars than you can imagine, and it never gets easier. But I will say this: what’s about to happen here will set in motion everything else to come. We’ve waited long enough.” “So what you’re saying then is…?” Solomon slammed his mug down on to the table. The only thing stronger than Solomon’s arms was perhaps his liver. Indeed, his tolerance was enough to make even the heartiest Dwarf blush. “It’s time to find our marks, my friend,” Solomon grinned. “Let’s go over who we have so far.” Solomon reached below him and wrapped his iron grip around a hefty leather-bound tome. The book fell on to the table with the seeming weight of a litter of piglets. As Solomon opened the well-worn pages, glimpses of powerful secrets and forbidden words reached for candlelight. Solomon knew his musings all too well, however, and knew exactly where to flip that no prying eyes may become privy to more than they need to. The book ensured this as well with tricks of its own, though these secrets were known to none but Solomon. “First, Kalyar,” he said. “Still in the care of Elliera?” “Yes,” the stranger said, “though he has reverted to a slightly different form. Much like Ruukina his abilities are more fluid. He is still a stag, just…” “Just what?” Solomon said, stylus at the ready. “He’s, well, smaller now,” the stranger said as they made a gesture with their hands, “no bigger than a fawn.” Solomon stared in disbelief for a measure of time, just enough to allow his face to contort in humorous fashion. He erupted in laughter, startling the hooded stranger. “Kalyar you prick,” Solomon bubbled, “you would… you would. Oh bless me, what a shithead. He shrank?” “Er, yes,” the man said, “but please, keep your voice down. You always get too loud when you’re drunk.” “Oh Seven save me this is just too good,” Solomon hummed as he wrote down the info. “I cannot wait to verify this myself. But first thing’s first, your payment.” Solomon leafed through his book until he stumbled upon the appropriate page. With a swift motion, he tore the velum from the book and handed it to the dainty, waiting hand of the cloaked stranger. “You had best get back, that’s precious information there,” Solomon said, rubbing the braids in his hair. “You have an escort?” “Me? An escort? I don’t think so, they would only slow me down.” “Whatever you say, friend,” Solomon said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have someone to find. Preparations to make. Seems they’ve gone and started brewing trouble in the Wastes.” “You’re going after Húrin?” Solomon smiled. “Well, Fumna actually. But where you’ll find one, you’ll find the other.” The hooded one twiddled their thumbs in thought. “You’re not going to stay here to help Gildor?” Solomon looked at his friend. Despite the cloak, he could see the worry heaping on their shoulders. “You think I should stay?” “I know you should stay.” Solomon chuckled. He felt an ethereal warmth here in this fire-lit tavern. A kinship that pierced his steel-bound chest and reminded him of a world made of stardust. “I just wanted to hear you say it, friend. These are my people, after all. I’ll see the throne sat, and then my true Sojourn can begin. Besides, there’s a young lady I need to see before anyone else.” “You mean Lidiya?” “She’s been alone, my friend. Alone this whole time. She has friends, yes. She has supporters, ‘tis true. But not a one knows what she is going through. They can only dream of the pain she harbors, of the dread and uncertainty she faces every day.” Solomon clutched his cloak above his heart, his eyes distant and even fearful. “I need to tell her, to show her, that I understand.” “Let’s just hope her lucky bodyguard doesn’t kill you first,” the stranger said, no attempts to hide their sass-laden tone. “Please, friend. I know enough of Nex to know that he could never kill me, even if he wanted to.” “Oh? And what makes you say that?” Solomon put his finger to his lips in a playful fashion. “Even I have secrets.” “I thought the God of Order wasn’t supposed to have secrets.” “He’s also not supposed to drink his own weight in ale, but whoops looks like he did just that.” They both stood, their auras locked in friendly camaraderie. “Take care of yourself, Solomon,” the stranger said. With that, they turned and left the tavern like a shadow tied to the wind. “Until we meet again, brave Sojourner. Now then, waitress! Another drink, if you will!” Category:World Lore